


Ring Around the Rosie

by Glossolalia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Again, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Bodyguard Romance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Car Sex, Drug Dealing, Dystopia, Existential Angst, Fight Club AU, Gun Violence, M/M, Mafia AU, Murder, Pining Keith (Voltron), Power Imbalance, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: Everyone knows who Takashi Shirogane is.He’s an ex-Galra commander turned underground shooting star. Famous for his high stakes boxing matches and illegal quintessence pushing, Shiro is a living myth and cold motherfucker.After making the mistake of stealing from Shiro, Keith gets to pay back every last cent with both his life and throwing fists.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> The fact I got to write Takashi Shirogane shitting on Chuck Palahniuk is its own on brand mess of 'I don't care anymore.'

After twelve car rides around the sun, Keith found his gilt-spangled dreams in the glove compartment, hidden beneath napkins and receipts. Adults called them 'aspirations,' but Keith considered the word a dilution. You see, aspirations don't crawl from people's hearts like coyotes leaving the borough for spring, and they don't lope across Jupiter's swollen red eye in packs. They don't howl to mock Earth's lonesome moon, and they definitely don't hunt star hares along the Milky Way. Dreams do, and back then, back when the sky was still cornflower blue and not purple Galra pollution, Keith was teeming with dreams.

He was gonna play ping pong with Kerberos and Pluto. He was gonna fistfight solar flares with his knuckles and a lion's roar. He was gonna purify a hidden ocean on Mars with a rock skip, and he was gonna build cities out of supertemporal gold dust that tastes like caramel and sweat.

Dreams. Not aspirations, not a five-year plan, not a memorized routing number or the withdrawn wait in a hospital lobby because you're too old to fear the doctor. Keith had  _dreams_.

But there's something about the nineteenth trip around the sun that loves a car crash.

Scientists still bicker about why. The only theories they can agree on are how radiation has a drinking problem and coronal mass ejections find hopelessness hysterical. Unfortunately, character flaws rarely hold up in a courtroom, so why nineteen is the unluckiest number still remains a technical mystery.

Keith blames the quintessence.

"That shit the Galra dragged in," he'd say if he could say anything. "That shit that cut the brakes on my life right as I was switching lanes."

There's a metal bit jammed between Keith's teeth, so he's not here for an interview. He's also suffering from a concussion, but he doesn't know that yet. Give him an hour, though.

Keith would also say, "Zarkon made it the only thing worth a damn dime, so who can blame me for ending up here? We're all going to in the end. There's no economy, no plant life and no ladder to climb."

But again, he can't speak.

Two hands as wide as dinner plates seize Keith's shoulders and slam him down. His ass hits a plastic lawn chair, and his canines clink against the muzzle, shooting pain through his jaw. Keith focuses on the speckled white tiles beneath his Doc Martens. He slams his feet up and down, scooting forward and back. Screaming against the metal in his mouth, Keith wrenches against the plastic ties on his wrists. They rub raw, tear him open, but a burnt wrist is nothing compared to being shot for theft.

"He's a real bitch, boss. The tiny fucker bit off Lance's earlobe."

A man laughs. It's startled and much too light.

"I wonder if Lance has a face cream for cannibalization."

The laughter restarts, falling deeper into its owner's chest.

Keith whips his face forward, panting and nostrils flaring. His eyes won't focus, and while the room is dim, there's a singular white light glaring at him. A face floats in front of Keith, taunting in its wavering. It's an arm's reach away, and its chin is settled on folded arms. The features crisscross into a cyclops.

Keith squeezes his eyes shut and screams, hoarse and muffled. Pink drool dribbles down his scabbed chin. He can't tell if the penny taste is Lance's blood or the restraint cutting his tongue.

"That's one pissed off animal cry," says the floating head. It's also the same person who laughed at Lance's ear. "Sounded a bit like I did after you stole fifty grand of Q from my office."

Keith remembers three things from that day; throwing punches, blood pouring down his throat like corn syrup and then being dragged down an unlit hall that may or may not had been green. Surely there was a car ride, too. Actually, correction. Keith remembers  _four_  things. The fourth is a bee colony climbing inside his ears and turning his brain into honeycomb. They're still beating their wings, buzzing and buzzing.

"Did you think we wouldn't trace every stupid step you made?" Keith doesn't reply. Somewhere in the room fingers snap, and like a trained dog, a hand smacks the back of Keith's head. "Look at me."

Keith lifts his lids, and this time, the focus is better.

The talking head isn't an apparition, but a skull connected to a body lying stomach down on a reclined tattoo chair. The blinding light is a slouching lamp meant to aid the artist's sight, and the bees are a humming tattoo gun, bleeding ink on a back piece. Keith notes these environmental details.

Finally, he sees the man in front of him. Really,  _truly_  sees him.

The bleached bangs, incisive facial features, and wormy pink scar slashed across his nose give away his name. Keith's eyes flit toward the man's bionic arm. Its purple luminescent tattoos throb like a pulse.

Everyone knows who Takashi Shirogane is.

He's an ex-Galra commander turned underground shooting star. Famous for his high stakes boxing matches and illegal quintessence pushing, Shiro is a living myth and cold motherfucker.

"You've built up quite the debt, kid. Two dead men, fifty worth of pure quintessence, and now an ear belonging to someone who's gonna demand plastic surgery. If I were philanthropic, then I'd shoot you through your teeth, but we both know where charity goes these days. Can't even get a tax break anymore."

Keith pants like a beaten horse.

"Do you like deals?" Shiro asks, smile warm, conniving.

Stiller than before, Keith emptily stares through Shiro's forehead and figures if he doesn't like deals, then he better decide whether or not he likes living more.

"No one steals from me," Shiro says, assuming Keith understands his dire situation. Shiro pauses, and the melodrama would make Keith laugh had Shiro not earned his theater with blistering rebellion and limb removal. "I call situations like yours pliant. You can go up or you can go down, but as it stands, what you took from me is worth more than the fact you're good at breathing. You're gonna pay back that Q with your life, and you're gonna pay with the same hands that sold my shit and butchered my boy."

"Why not stick him in front of a glory hole?" a voice asks. "He's cute."

"He bites," Shiro explains, matter-of-fact. Otherwise, it would be an option. Keith suddenly savors Lance's blood. "No one's gonna stick their dick through a hole for a biter."

Keith jerks against the rope and dislocates his shoulder with a pop. Another scream rattles his teeth like a freight train barreling past loose window panes. Shiro's roving eyes don't react. He tilts his head, and when he speaks, the words are presented to Keith in bored, sterile light.

"Have you ever seen a cockfight?"

Against his honor code, Keith sobs.

* * *

A crowd bellows, frisbeeing drink orders at two overwhelmed bartenders.

It's a song Keith knows well, and he bounces on the balls of his feet to its rhythm, spitting blood onto the concrete floor and wiping his nose. In front of him is a disoriented fighter. He ambles across the ring like a bovine mammal, and above him Shiro is waiting behind grimy glass, talking on a white Motorola flip phone while smoking a menthol cigarette.

Whether or not Shiro is a god or hawk, Keith doesn't know, but Shiro watches every match. That observation deck is his throne, and there he peers over his creations.

Keith is still bouncing when they make eye contact. Shiro winks, mouth a severe line that doesn't match the flirtatiousness, but Keith winks back and clenches his fists. The clench forces his busted knuckles to bleed faster. He returns his gaze to the bald beast lumbering toward him. The man is huge, mythically so, but Keith has thrown himself against more skilled fighters. Keith sniffs back and gestures with fingers.

"Come here, you stupid fuck."

They're in the Black Lion's billiard room.

Its floors are muddy and damp and its exposed black pipes eat whatever light emits from the speckled stained glass lamps. The Black Lion was once a gentlemen's club, but that was before its golf course curdled under acid rain. Years ago. Before Keith aced pre-algebra and sucked his first cock in an abandoned warehouse. Since then, the institution has eroded, been rebuilt, and reclaimed by Shiro.

Keith has haunted the Victorian for a year.

He'd consider himself more of a prisoner if he hated his circumstances, but he's got a queen bed with three thick quilts and regular hot meals. When he has migraines, there's a nurse in the kitchen who keeps narcotics in a candy dish beside a loaded gun. If his wrappings look putrid, she changes them or gives him penicillin injections. Before fighting in the Black Lion, Keith thought prescriptions drugs had disappeared with the government's fallen infrastructure. He's since learned money can make anything reappear.

Money is all Shiro has, too. Money and his black mink coats. Money and the parade of subordinates that trail him in hopes of earning a nod of respect. Puppets.

Keith lifts his fists, and his opponent's face becomes an unfocused blob.

He supposes he's a puppet, too.

Keith is known for slingshot punches and lithe legwork, but what most don't know is Keith only lets himself see his opponents as shadows. They become monsters, and it's how, when he throws back knuckles and pounds them into meaty eye sockets, Keith doesn't experience an ounce of remorse.

It simplifies things.

One, two, three, and —

Keith rams his fist against a nose. His soured knuckles burn on contact, demolishing bone and forcing his eyes to bloom wide with the adrenaline rush. A crunch rips through the surrounding shouts, and with the encouraging bloodshed, his audience howls until it becomes blaring white noise. Keith sighs, content.

The opponent spurts blood, purple and thick. It splatters against Keith's forehead, and Keith shifts back on bare feet, smirking in satisfaction. The giant slams onto his shins and shatters both knees. After a perilous sway, he falls chest forward and clocks his chin against the floor. He's unconscious and eerily still.

Keith wonders if he's dead, but it's not his job to check for pulses. Shiro disapproves of Keith doing the grunt work, especially when it's from a soft-hearted place.

" _No point in letting them know you're compassionate, baby. I keep that secret for myself."_

In the flurry, Keith is handed a black towel. He wipes his knuckles and disappears into the crowd. No one expects him to socialize. He's only ever accepted short back pats.

"That kid's a god," someone says. "Achilles reborn."

He climbs the narrow stairs leading to the observation deck and realizes he's been holding his breath. As he exhales, Shiro opens the door and descends, meeting him halfway. His rough hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, and his closed lips create a casual smile that could be mistaken for fondness.

"Turn around." Shiro talks from the corner of his mouth like he's from New Jersey. He's actually Arizonian. "We made a lot of money tonight. You've earned a decent drink."

Keith's hands throb. He doesn't move and looks past Shiro's head. "It's loud by the ring."

"We'll sit out back. There're as many people out there as there are up here. You're not going to get any peace. I promise."

"It better be a strong drink then."

Keith pivots and Shiro drops both hands onto his shoulders. He kneads Keith's knotted muscles with calloused thumbs, and Keith unapologetically moans. His eyelids become weighted.

"Nice sound," Shiro murmurs.

"Feels good."

The Black Lion is moated by a wraparound porch separated into two sections. Shiro's friends sit behind a guarded screen door and everyone else smokes in the front yard, chatting about rigged fights and lost bets.

Shiro and Keith leave the stairwell and trek to the private porch. Lance is smoking beside Hunk and Pidge, but Shiro and Keith deposit themselves into rotting patio furniture far from prying ears. Shiro gestures for a waitress with two fingers and fishes out a soft pack. He whacks it against his palm, orders their Coke and ryes, and Keith follows his musical movements with casual interest.

"Keep fighting like that and you're going to get out of debt," Shiro says. He cups his lighter's flame and sharply inhales, exhaling the first cloud through his nose. Keith hears the cherry crackle and presses his mouth to a propped up palm, still watching. "So say it happens. Say you're out from under me in a few years. Then what? What's eating you? You have to have a few aspirations."

Keith removes the hand from his mouth. "Not exactly."

Shiro passes the cigarette to Keith. He lights one for himself and leans back, inspecting Keith for a quiet moment. He sighs. Tonight Shiro is shirtless beneath his fur jacket. There are scars that grid his pectorals, and Keith imagines rubbing his fingers along the raised tissue. Shiro used to fight for big money, but now he trains other fighters like Keith and gambles with fellow drug lords. There's no rhyme or reason to it. No passion involved. For Shiro, it's something to do like knitting or collecting stamps.

Shiro insists. "You wanted things before the Galra."

"Everyone wanted things before Zarkon and Haggar. Whatever I wanted isn't that special, Shiro."

He quirks his mouth and sucks from the filter. Shiro speaks through the thin vapor. "I still want to know what you wanted. When you were a kid and rain didn't cause cancer."

There are babies being born who'll never know clean rain. Keith lowers his stare and ashes into a forgotten beer bottle. He sucks in a preparatory breath, lifting and dropping his shoulders.

"By the time the Galra made things irreversible, I was too young to think about  _real_  things. I wanted kid stuff like being selected for the Mars colonies or the Lysithea mission."

Shiro manages a thoughtful 'ah.'

"I was there for the final Mars transmission," he says. "Not that we knew it was going to be the final one. Last I heard, there hasn't been contact between Mars and Earth since then."

"Barring off a whole planet," Keith quietly says. "Who would have thought it possible?"

The waitress sets down two sweating glasses. Shiro lifts his, and the two men passively toast. Keith kneads the black towel forgotten on his lap and thinks about dreaming. Shiro breaks his train of thought.

"During the early 21st century they were worried something like this might happen. That was before alien life was public knowledge. It didn't weigh the way it should have, so no one thought to create a backup contact for worst case scenarios. Guess it doesn't matter now. The colonies are probably gone anyway."

Keith plucks the rim of his glass. "Do you still remember how to fly?"

"It's something you don't forget. It's something I'm sure most of us wish we  _could_  forget. You spend too much time dreaming about finding some random ship that might take you away."

Shiro, like so many others, used to work for Galaxy Garrison's aeronautics and astropilot program. After Zarkon's descent upon humanity, Shiro had the choice to stand by his work at the Garrison and be murdered or join Zarkon's league and live another day. Figuring he was worth more alive than dead on principle, Shiro held out and escaped with a whisked memory and chip off the shoulder.

Keith remembers to smoke. "Guess finding a ship is what some might call a dream. That or maybe desperation."

"The best dreams are born from desperation. Nothing makes something happen quicker than sink or swim."

"Then this isn't sink or swim for you."

"Sink or swim is relative, and right now, I'm doing better than most." Shiro traces his glass with his flesh thumb. "Here's a question. Do you still believe people can change the world? No. Better question. Did you ever believe people could change the world?"

"People can change other people," Keith says. He can't look at Shiro and prefers to stroke his soiled bandages. "It's the same thing, and I believe in it now more than I did before Zarkon."

They marinate in the exchange. Shiro belatedly laughs under his breath and leans back. He whispers the word 'dreams' and finishes his drink.

"Don't fight again until your hands are healed," he murmurs. "If they rot off, then we'll have to pull out your teeth and stick you in the whorehouse."

Keith rolls his lips over his teeth, speech wet and slurred. "Your guys are into this?"

Shiro laughs, albeit disgusted. "You look like Zarkon."

"I'm sure some of you would  _love_  to fuck Zarkon's mouth."

Shiro leans forward, smiling. "You've been around me too long."

"Yeah, well, whose fault is that?"

Their easiness hasn't always been this casual, but after months under his Black Lion contract, Keith gave up his briers and pretending Shiro wasn't the nail securing his lid. Fellow fighters often refer to Keith as the undeserving favorite or even Shiro's whore, but Keith knows there's no pride in being Shiro's anything. He's a show pony on a good day. His sides are scarred from digging spurs, and he's only ever tasted Shiro's fists in the training ring, not his lips or cock.

Keith finishes his drink and then a second. After Shiro orders their third round, the older man decides to critique Keith's fighting style. Not enough control, Shiro says. He earns an eye roll, and Keith earns a shin kick beneath that table that makes him punch Shiro's shoulder and laugh.

"Did you forget I won?" Keith shakes free the ice in his glass. "That's why you're letting me drink."

"Winning isn't always the final brick to bust."

Keith slams an elbow onto the table and offers his fingers, wiggling them with a passive stare. "Say that again after you finally lose to me in arm wrestling."

Shiro eyes the challenge. "Do you love embarrassing yourself?"

"I've been lifting."

Shiro wipes his flesh hand on his black pants and reaches for Keith's offering, smacking their palms together. Shiro's friends (not Keith's by any means) turn toward the table to watch, forever on the lookout for something akin to bloodshed. These friends were once scientists, politicians, and engineers, but a college degree hasn't meant anything since Fed Loan bottomed out. Now they like entertainment. It's why they're in the Black Lion in the first place. Several work for Shiro. Several have given their lives to him.

The waitress volunteers to say 'go.'

When the syllable leaves her mouth, Shiro and Keith crank their strengths against each other. Keith grapples for the edge of the table, nails whitening. He stares into Shiro's eyes, teeth grinding as he's forced to chug the man's handsome features.

Unlike Keith, Shiro isn't smiling. He's unmoved with a cocked eyebrow. He's determined to make Keith submit, but if Shiro wins there'll be a lecture. Keith would rather die than be reminded who's boss.

"What were  _your_ dreams?" Keith asks, trying not to kneel on his chair to gain leverage. "Before the rain caused cancer. What did you want, Shiro?"

"Kerberos," Shiro says. He grunts over the word, and the harsh noise knots Keith's belly. "The Garrison handpicked me for the Kerberos mission. I worked my entire life for that assignment."

"That means we would've met." Keith puffs out a thick breath. Shiro's thumb presses against his hand and discreetly rubs. "If I'd passed the tests and moved into the dorms you could've been my mentor."

Shiro shrugs. This fantasy doesn't interest him. "There might've been a chance."

"Give me your first lesson."

"I've given you plenty."

Keith shakes his head. "One from the Garrison."

Shiro doesn't reply for five long seconds. Consumed by their shaking hands, his eyes become flint. Inhaling a sharp breath, Shiro slams Keith's arm against the table. The impact sends orphaned beer bottles rolling onto the floor, and Keith shudders when the glass shatters.

Still gripping Keith's hand, Shiro replies. "Patience yields focus."

* * *

 

Their relationship was once like gales against open masts. Comparing arm wrestling and drinking to Keith's first months at the Black Lion might as well be like the Venn diagram for night and day.

Snug in his bed with one arm beneath his damp hair and the other on his bruised stomach, Keith reminisces on his relationship with Shiro.

" _Have you ever seen a cockfight?"_

'Cockfight,' a noun, pronounced ˈkäk-ˌfīt, and known as a contest in which gamecocks usually fitted with metal spurs are pitted against each other. Also, a good gay sex innuendo or allusion to homoeroticism among heterosexual men with "something" to prove.

Shiro specializes in cockfights. Rumor has it he specializes in all definitions of the word, derogatory slang included. Keith couldn't have cared less in the beginning, but he had to pretend. Shiro didn't give him a choice.

The only choice he had was between a protein shake or an omelet for breakfast. He had to be in the training gym by 6 AM and he had to have the crust dug from the corners of his eyes before Shiro saw him. Otherwise, Shiro would count every punishing lap and single-hand push-up.

The first time they fought crosses Keith's memory like a blur, but with Shiro's thumb stroking his hand on the brain, Keith delves deep to resurface it.

Bare feet.

Bare feet clinging to sticky plastic mats. A hot rush that whorled inside his stomach. Made him nervous. Made him wanna vomit.

Keith's bare feet had just touched the training mat when he watched Shiro saunter through the gym's door. He was shirtless, dressed in black sweats drawn snug along his toned hips. It was the first time Keith saw him up close and standing, and Keith had an acute awareness of how wide his shoulders were, how tall he was. His biceps were carved from stone, the definition of chiseled, and both were scarred pink, especially where his prosthetic welded into skin. There was nothing clinical about the robotic application. Keith could tell the procedure had been violent, forced.

"Not a morning person!" Shiro called out and stretched both arms high. "Whoever you work for must be a lax boss."

Keith flinched. "I don't work for anyone. I hate the Galra, and I hate your self-aggrandizing drug rings."

Shiro slowed his gait, lifting a single brow.

"Why did you steal the Q then?" he asked. "If you hate me and the Galra so much why peddle our greatest asset? Seems hard on the heart."

"I had to eat."

"You could have stolen food. You could have whored or joined the rebels up north."

Keith stared through him. He repeated himself. "I had to eat."

Shiro's hands landed on his squared hips and he laughed. "It's really that simple then. You don't work for anyone. I was your closest option, so you took it. That's incredible."

Keith tied back his hair, eyes shut and hands twisting elastic. "Hunger is the easiest way to make people forget themselves. Rebel or conform. Doesn't matter. You'll do it. Ever learn about the fast food complacency theory? How the United States controlled its people through cheap and high-calorie food? But whatever. I heard you're no better. Once a Garrison officer and now a Galra arms dealer. You sold your coworkers out. That must be  _hard on the heart_ , too."

"People hear a lot of things about me with very little context."

Keith let his weight fall onto a single foot. He shrugged. "That's life for you."

"Is this when I tell you to respect your elders?"

"You're not that much older than I am." Keith lifted both fists and asserted his stance. He was ready to tear through Shiro as if his skin was made of smoke. "Fight me."

"You're already off the mark," Shiro said, ducking beneath the chain that so desperately wanted to be a ring. "I'm not fighting you. I'm training you."

It was hard to differentiate between the two back then. Keith was pissed. There wasn't a thread of control restraining him when he sprinted for Shiro, aching to spill the man's blood and drown him in its shallow puddle. If Keith had always owned one thing, then it was himself, and now Shiro was his keeper. It left him raw, inflamed. He wanted Shiro's atonement. He wanted to pretend it wasn't partially his fault.

The details surrounding their first fight are still hairy.

Keith recalls a fist to the throat, a hand stroking his hip and fingers pressing deep behind that pointed bone. His shoulders ache with the memory of being thrown across the ring like a cotton ball, but that distinct sensation of lifting himself up during the fight runs through him, thrilling to think about.

Keith inhales and touches his left pectoral. Shiro hit him there, hard. It knocked him to the ground again. He'd tried to stand, tried to use his legs, but Shiro read his battle sequence like a goddamn seer. Trained, wise, Shiro was a man who had survived boot camp and the Galra arena. He was the only escapee known.

Shiro's commanding shout runs through him.

"I said training!"

Keith closes his eyes and chews his bottom lip.

"I'm not a dog!"

Shiro slammed him against the mat with a thud that made Keith's skeleton creak. Seeing galaxies die behind his eyelids, Keith muttered 'fuck' and groaned. He was distracted from the pain when Shiro roughly shifted forward between his thighs, filling the space between them with heat. Shiro pinned him, and Keith's legs wanted to spread, open on instinct as he clawed Shiro's back for comfort. It was a disconcerting desire Keith tried to will away, but his brain flooded with mental images of bouncing mattresses and Shiro's mouth scraping his throat. Intrusive and cruel, Keith recalls wanting to cry.

Shiro shoved back one of his knees and waited for a yield. Keith stilled but didn't utter a word.

"A fucking ox," he said.

Keith kept quiet.

Out of breath and smiling, Shiro pressed his forehead against the mat beside Keith's neck and let his body weight hang. He grunted, laughing soft and low, and pushed back. Shiro sat on his feet and stroked his chin, appraising the man beneath him. Keith didn't look away, but his skin bubbled with goosebumps.

"You're a sloppy but determined fighter. Could be worse. I'll give you that."

Keith rolled his jaw to the side. "I'm only determined when I have a bone to pick."

"Think about it this way." Shiro dropped Keith's thigh and rose to his feet without the use of his hands. "You're picking a bone with life. If you let me down and lose, then you die. When you enter the ring, everyone is out to get you, Keith, so picture them as me. Picture them as anyone who has ever hurt you. I don't care either way, sweetheart. Just win."

"Sweetheart," Keith intoned.

"You heard me."

Sitting up, Keith massaged his bruising shoulder. He eyed Shiro's midsection where the lioness tattoo reached around with her dagger claws extended. She was complete. Fresh and black as a basement.

"It's vanity piece," Shiro said after catching Keith stare. "Finished her the night you came in."

"It's nice."

"You don't have any?"

Keith shook his head 'no' and made himself stand. Shiro tossed a water bottle at him, and one-handed, he snatched it from the air. He untwisted the cap with a spin and sucked down a mouthful. The water didn't tame his cotton tongue.

Shiro prodded onward. "Is there a reason?"

"Never gave it any thought."

"I know your type. You don't think about yourself that much." Shiro raked his fingers through his bangs. The sweat held his hair back like gel. He stared at Keith's torso, thoughtful. Shiro averted his gaze and focused on his bionic hand. "Probably for the best at this point. I'd give anything to live inside my head."

"It's not that great." Keith fiddled with the bottle cap, stroked its teeth with his thumb. "Sort of eats away at your personality."

"If that's your way of explaining why you're so one note, then I commend you on the poetry."

Keith clenched the cap and lowered his hand. "I don't owe you my personality."

"You're right, but you do owe me several thousand dollars and your first fight is next month." Shiro cocked his chin toward the other side of the ring. "Let's go again, but think this time, and don't try to kill me. I promise, Keith. You're not gonna land a punch for a long,  _long_  time."

Without fanfare, Shiro handed Keith his ass on a silver platter that morning, and subsequently, for the entire year and into the present day.

Keith strokes his fingers along his happy trail, coarse hair soothing him. Beside his bed is a window that overlooks what used to be a city winking with light and reassuring sirens. Keith can't remember the last time he heard an ambulance, and when he sees them in movies, they're like relics. It's the more depressing cousin of watching doctors smoke in their offices or spotting an ashtray on a bar top.

* * *

 

" _I'm going for a walk. Come with me. You need some air anyway. Don't look at me like that. I saw you snort that Q, Keith. It's okay. You're not in trouble this time."_

Shiro loves the sky, which isn't surprising considering his past occupation, but his love has grown muted, comfortable in impossible. He compares it to a child who leaves their mother and assumes she'll always be there. Enough life happens and you can't return to that twinkling wonder that's a comfortable and promising childhood bedroom. It reconstructs, and in a glimmer, becomes an office with invoices and ringing telephones. Shiro wants to go back, though. He doesn't make it a cryptogram to puzzle.

"How do I go back to that feeling?" Shiro asks his cigarette filter, not Keith.

No one walks the golf course. It's because it's ugly, charred brown by noxious rain, but that doesn't matter to Shiro. He's always looking skyward, assessing clouds and using his thumb to measure the distance between stars. Keith can't decide what's worse: being one flight away from sinking his claws into his dreams before having them wrenched away or never stepping into a flight simulator to begin with.

A million unrealized chances wheeling across life like unreachable galaxies or a single tangible moment turned off like a hallway light.

"Throw a couple more punches," Keith says, head tilted back. He's wearing a thick black jacket to stave off the cold night. Shiro unearthed it for him. The hood is lined with red faux fur and it stops at his hips. "You could also snort more quintessence. It makes you feel like you're dreaming."

Keith can hear the smile in Shiro's next words. "You hate quintessence, but you hate me, so that makes sense."

"I don't hate you as much as I could."

Shiro levels his chin and looks over his shoulder at Keith. Behind him is a glorious backdrop of stars that span like a spilled tube of glitter. Keith only sees the split-second when Shiro turns his face away.

* * *

 

With nothing better to do, Keith invests himself in fights. Particularly ones where the statistical odds are stacked against him and Shiro has his doubts.

Praise is his go-to after winning these matches. Sometimes, but not always, Shiro gives him approving looks or ruffles his bangs before patting his cheek and brushing his chin. It makes Keith feel warm. It makes him forget Shiro is lethal and the Christmas when he decapitated a man with his robotic arm.

"Traitorous on the holidays," Shiro said, staring down the headless torso. He wiped the blood off his nose and then reached to swipe it off Keith's throat. "I remember when people still had class."

Shiro flicked the blood into his eggnog and ordered Keith and Lance to dump the body. In aggravated silence, they transported the corpse through a blizzard, unaware the river was frozen. Together they heaved the body off the bridge, shivering and bitching about Shiro's desperate need for an anger management class or electroshock therapy. When the body smacked the foggy surface, both men stopped and coughed. They exchanged a look, silently agreed to do nothing, and left him for Mother Nature.

Shiro said 'take it to the river,' not 'throw it  _into_  the river.'

Butcher jobs aside, Shiro's affection is easy to get lost in. He's deceptively charming, someone who shows his teeth and knows exactly how to shadow his fangs. Keith lets himself fall for it.

Rain has prodded the Black Lion for two days when Keith believes he's earned Shiro's praise again. During the fight, he didn't see Shiro in the observatory window, which means he watched from the back, yammering into his flip phone and tugging at the fur around his neck. In the past, Keith has restrained urges to pet Shiro's coats. The material is always sleek, glossy, unlike anything he or his fellow fighters own. Shiro once told him several were crafted from animals that are now extinct making them priceless.

" _Never had much interest in fashion before I opened the Black Lion, but if the world gets better, then maybe some scientist will find these valuable."_

" _Is that was this is then? A ruse until the world gets better?"_

" _Humanity cycles through phases. Before the Middle Ages we had the Greco-Roman world and after the Middle Ages we had the Age of Revolutions."_

" _So this is the Dark Ages but with cell phones."_

" _I wouldn't go that far. We do have space exploration, and there's a difference between willful ignorance and forced imprisonment on one's own planet."_

Keith climbs the stairs to the observatory deck. He pushes open the door and everyone is drinking, lounged on dingy chaises and discussing the match. Everyone except Shiro. The crowd acknowledges him when he drifts across the room to a white metal door, but Keith only offers curt waves. He shoves his way into the green hallway, which is officially his first memory in the Black Lion, and the door slams behind him with an echoing clap. No one but Shiro is allowed inside without permission, so when Keith doesn't see the usual guard toying with his cracked flip phone, he peers into the hollow darkness and listens.

A muted thud and shout drift from the end of the hall.

Keith sprints, responding to instinct like gunfire. His feet smack against the floor, avoiding puddles created by ceiling leaks. Another thud races toward him, and Keith skids to a halt outside Shiro's office door. He can't make out the words, but he can decipher terse tones, scuffling. If he were more cautious, then he would gather backup and act, but Keith slams his foot against the door. The force splinters the flimsy lock, and the door whips open with a commanding bang against Shiro's dented filing cabinet.

"I thought we agreed to no guards, Shirogane?"

"I didn't call anyone!"

Keith stands before two men holding baseball bats while another presses Shiro chest down against his desk. Keith makes eye contact with Shiro, but Shiro isn't relieved. He hisses through gritted teeth and lurches against the iron hold. Keith spots a thick metal ring clamped around his bionic arm, disabling the Galra magic. Ready to fight, he steps forward, but Shiro's face is slammed against the desk in warning. A series of garbled swears crack from Shiro's mouth like a thirsty whip, and they stave Keith off.

Keith shifts his eyes to the men with bats. He snorts then speaks. "You've got three seconds."

"Until what?" one asks. His face is weasel-like, but he's lean and ripped. "There's no way you're going to take all three of us. Don't get tough because Daddy is watching."

Keith's skin ripples at the word 'Daddy.' He glances at Shiro who mouths 'go.'

"You've got three seconds until I do this -"

These opponents don't become shadows. They're actual monsters posing as a threat to the one person who might love space more than he does. In a time when there's nothing but money and the fight to earn the right to exist, Shiro is special. Everyone else has forgotten how to dream, and until Shiro, Keith had forgotten other people want things, too. Survival is an ever-receding fog almost impossible to see through.

Keith races toward the bat holders. They raise their weapons and swing, but he catches them both with a sting that chews his palms. Pain vibrates toward his elbows and his fingertips burn. Keith swallows spit and grits his teeth, biceps flexing until the ache becomes bone deep. He slams his foot down and yanks both bats downward, forcing the handles to slip from hands and smack the men in the face. Keith takes advantage of their surprise and punches right and elbows left. Kicking the bats across the room, Keith snatches the nearest head and jerks it face first against his raised knee.

"Watch your back!" Shiro shouts, using the same tone when he's coaching.

As the kneed assailant hits the ground, the redhead's arms loop around Keith's neck and choke. Keith clamps both hands onto the arms but is dragged across the room. Darting a hand between them, Keith seizes the man's crotch and digs his nails into the fabric until he feels warm dense flesh right beneath the fabric. He rips the same hand forward, and the man releases puppyish yelp, shoving Keith forward.

Keith orients his balance and spins around to face the man. He's unsheathed a knife better suited for a kitchen. Keith cracks his neck and checks beside his feet to make sure the other man is still unconscious. Luckily, the third person is occupied with his hold on Shiro. If he lets go, then Shiro will kill him.

"Knives are dirty," Keith says.

"Grabbing someone's dick isn't?"

His smile grows wry. "Dirty has tiers."

There's a pop and then a scream that doesn't belong to Shiro or Keith.

Keith topples forward as if whacked by one of the bats, but the bats are behind the redhead's boots. He catches himself with a knee, but numbness spreads beneath his right shoulder blade before morphing into a claw-sinking burn. Keith sucks in a breath. He wrinkles his nose and attempts to lunge forward in blind revenge, but a hand firmly wrenches back his shoulder.

Shiro steps forward and simultaneously tugs Keith farther away from the fight. "I said watch your back."

Keith side eyes the older man. "This is my fight."

Shiro tears off the contraption on his arm. He treats it like paper mache, but when it hits the ground, it gives a hefty  _thunk_. His bionic tattoos combust with hot purple light. The knife fighter stares at Shiro, unnerved and swallowing. He steps back.

"Let me fight," Keith reiterates.

Nostrils flaring, Shiro seizes Keith's bangs with his flesh hand and stares the younger man down. "You've been shot."

"What are you talking about? If I'd been shot, then I'd feel it." Keith reaches behind himself, but the movement tears something beneath his breastbone and he yells.

"Shock," Shiro explains, still eying the other fighter. "Don't move again. You're internally bleeding."

Shiro bolts and rears back his glowing arm. He stabs it through the man's gut with a coolness that could be interpreted as showboating. Entrails expel from the man's back, dressed in a pinkish-blue, and his spinal cord protrudes as two halves. Keith inhales the blood's gamey scent and closes his eyes. He swallows spit, and his brow twitches, but he calms down and tries to stare down Shiro's kill.

His eyes are out of focus, which induces dizziness. Keith reaches behind himself, looking for a support, but only finds air. His foot splashes a fresh blood puddle. Keith almost stumbles over the man he didn't see Shiro gut with a fountain pen, but Shiro catches him by the waist. Shiro agilely wraps an arm around Keith's midsection and shoves his other arm beneath both of his knees. Being lifted is disorienting and invasive, but the ceiling is growing dimmer by the minute. He thought bullet wounds held up better.

"This fucking sucks. Shiro -" Keith stops when the office door creaks open.

"Don't talk right now."

"Shiro, how much is this going to add to my debt?"

Shiro laughs in disdain. In his dreamlike terror, Keith imagines the man pressing his nose to his forehead and brushing it back and forth. He imagines it so well he feels the warm breath. It's been years since Keith encountered that kind of affection, but he doesn't let himself overthink his mommy and daddy issues.

"We'll talk numbers later, Keith."

"I wanted a life." Keith's vision melts. He melts down. "Don't take that away from me, Shiro. I'll fucking overdose. I'll do it on purpose."

_nothing, nothing, nothing_


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: murder and smut

"A life for a life," Shiro says, albeit warbled and distant. Keith can hear the smile even if he hasn't opened his eyes. "That's one way to pay off a debt."

The Black Lion has three hospital rooms and six beds. Keith knows the spaces well. Mostly, he knows their scent. Even though the peeling Victorian wallpaper and dust ingrained hardwood floors give it a sullied look, the spaces are bleached and scrubbed to avoid infection. Young, strong fighters can die off in droves, and Shiro refuses to lose them to carelessness like germs. This gesture comes with an antiseptic fume that could singe nose hairs, but after a bullet wound, Keith welcomes the way it burns his throat.

Keith's first words are more like a croak than actual syllables. "It was a reckless mistake. I turned my back like a goddamn idiot."

"Most people would take their clean slate with a nod." Shiro's palm settles on Keith's forearm, but Keith keeps his eyes shut. Already he can tell the room is much too bright. "Do you want to know how close to your heart the bullet was?"

Shiro laughs when Keith drowsily shakes his head 'no.'

"I didn't think so."

They sit in silence.

Keith counts the computerized beeps that represent his pulse. If he's debt free, then he can leave behind the Black Lion and return to life before. The thought of doing that causes him stress. He doesn't have parents, and his neighborhood was bombed seven years prior. Freedom means subconsciously clinging to his few belongings while sleeping on a hard-won park bench. It means possibly stealing from Shiro again.

"In another life," Shiro begins, effectively jerking Keith away from a potential nap. "I would have been a lot kinder to you."

"I know."

There's no real way to know this, but he does. Shiro is a well-marbled man with a slight softness rivering through the tough meat that keeps him alive. It's in how he makes sure Keith eats, drinks water and gets enough sleep. Of course, these things make him a better fighter, but Shiro's tone is cruel in its kindness.

"I wasn't always like this. Before Zarkon I was known for being good to my coworkers and cadets. My generation was idealistic and devoted to human rights, not this. Not what I do here."

Keith didn't expect to become a confessional booth before his first morphine dose. The mattress dips, and it prompts Keith to open his eyes.

At first, the overhead light sears his corneas. Rapidly blinking, he spots Shiro bent over the bed, cheek-down. His brow is furrowed and the corners of his mouth are held down by two invisible anchors, but he's a calm sea. Having never seen Shiro so vulnerable, Keith isn't sure what to do. He thinks back to all the affection in his life and realizes he can only remember one gesture from his childhood.

Keith cautiously reaches for Shiro's head. He sinks his fingers into white bangs, and though Shiro tenses, his shoulders unclench after two strokes. Keith cards through the tresses and ignores the awkward bubble in the room. His motions are uncertain, motor skills unrefined in gentleness, but he doesn't stop until Shiro opens his eyes. Neither man says anything. Shiro inspects him, and eventually, drops his hand on top of Keith's scarred knuckles.

"I'll give you two choices," Shiro says. "You can be my bodyguard or you can finish healing up and go wherever you think you need to go."

Keith blinks. It's strange having a choice. "Can I at least know how my surgery went before making big life decision? I feel like that could impact my choice."

"My bad," Shiro says, face ruddy as he pushes himself upright. "Let me get Pidge in here. She'll tell you what happened."

Keith admires the sheepishness. It makes Shiro look as young as he is. Twenty-seven is nothing. When Shiro frees his hand, Keith's chest sinks into a cold place and hurts.

"Tell her to bring morphine," Keith says, rubbing his chapped lips. He was shot in the shoulder, not directly behind the sternum, but his chest aches. Maybe the pain is seeping or the bullet injured him in the strange incongruent way flesh wounds sometimes can. "Morphine and a lot of water."

* * *

"I have to sit here," Keith says to the bedroom wall, preparing for a monologue. "I have to sit here for five weeks. No fighting. No training. No cardio. Nothing. He won't even let me watch a fight because he said I  _instigate_  even though there's a difference between instigation and self-defense. What am I supposed to do for five weeks? There's nothing to do here except maybe read, which -  _whatever_  - that gets old fast."

"You repaid your debt, are totally useless and yet you're still here." Lance is seated on the end of Keith's bed, wiping his nose with his thumb. "There's gotta be a catch."

Keith tongues a front tooth. An eyebrow creeps high. "Didn't you hear? He asked me to be his personal bodyguard."

"What is  _personal_? All bodyguards are personal, Keith."

"Not to Shiro."

"As your enemy, it's my responsibility to be suspicious about his intentions. Are they honest? Will he have you home by 10 PM every night? Does he go to church? Is he pro-life?"

Keith tosses the nearest pillow at him. "Maybe you're just kinda gross and hope that's what he means."

Catching the pillow, Lance presses his cheek against it like it's a faceless lover. "Maybe  _you're_  extremely gross and hope I hope that's what he means."

"Get out of my room," Keith says.

Lance doesn't leave his room. In fact, he flops on his back and makes himself comfortable. After successful plastic surgery and Shiro's threat to break both their hands if they bickered one more time, Lance and Keith entered a relationship built on tolerance and fear of Shiro's sporadic wrath.

Lance heaves a sigh and becomes conversational. "It's a good gig if he gave you the option to leave first, but you probably have Stockholm Syndrome at this point."

"Don't we all?"

"Touché, Keith. Touché."

Keith grabs his favorite coffee mug and sips, hard and pointed. The mug is white, and on its side is a fluffy cartoon Shiba Inu rolling in the dirt. He tells himself it's the stout shape and not the imagery that pleases him, but it's basically a teacup, and the innocent charm clashes with the Black Lion's standard debauchery. Keith sees the dish as a change of pace in his highway to hell speed zone. It's nice.

Lance flaps his arms above his head, dismissive. "If it makes you feel better, Shiro hasn't been involved with anyone since I started here. Pidge has been around even longer, and she hasn't seen anyone either."

"Stop projecting," Keith mutters. "No one in their right mind would want to be involved with the person who's kept them imprisoned for a year."

"Implying anyone here is in their right mind and totally ignoring the fact you're still here after given the option to leave."

"Stockholm Syndrome."

"You have to be unaware of your Stockholm Syndrome to have Stockholm Syndrome."

"We can stop talking about this now."

Lance rolls onto his side and performs a dramatic series of leg lifts. "We can at least mutually agree Shiro is a slice of smoked bacon."

Keith stares at Lance and hesitates. From the start, it was easy to identify Shiro as a person who is attractive in an untouchable way. He's a handsome no one ends up with forever, which explains why Keith hadn't given Shiro's handsomeness prudent thought until then. Granted, Keith jerked off to thoughts about Shiro, but everyone jerked off to Shiro or so Keith assumed. There wasn't much else.

Keith rolls his lips. "I guess."

"You're constipated and exhaust me."

This exhaustion steals Lance from his room. He informs Keith he's going to get them a snack from the kitchen. Keith knows better. Hunk will distract him, and he might see them both at dinner.

Seated on the bed, Keith ponders with his mug. His thoughts are phantoms from childhood. So many things happened before Zarkon arrived that he can't recall. Keith rises to his feet and flinches. His whole torso is sore, but he ignores it and approaches the window that overlooks their nameless city. In the farthest distance, directly beyond the splintered courthouse, Keith imagines he sees Galaxy Garrison.

His mind wanders, and he imagines light. It's blue and harsh, peeking out from the canyon. He lets himself see a four-legged beast lumbering beneath the distant stars.

_Take me away._

A knock on his door startles Keith from his thoughts.

"Just checking in."

Shiro's voice makes something behind his sternum crest.

Keith turns over his shoulder and drinks the man down like water. His shoulder is pressed against the door frame and he's missing his usual black coat. His expression is one that's been wrung out. Keith wants to ask if he's ever thought about what it's like to run barefoot across another planet, but he knows he's nuts.

Reclining against the wall, Keith smiles. "Everything's holding together. Whatever pills Pidge has me on are working like magic. She knows what she's doing."

"That she does." Shiro lets himself inside Keith's room. Until then, there's been an unspoken agreement that Shiro wouldn't invade his space, but Keith doesn't bristle. He accepts the change between them the way he has to accept humid summers storms and February's blizzards. "You can start tailing me once you can lift your arm again. Don't lie to me and try to work because you're bored. I'll know better."

"I'm sure you will," Keith says. He swallows another sip and sets aside his mug. "Are you off the clock? I can't remember the last time I saw you wandering."

Shiro stops at the foot of the bed. "I'm not wandering."

" _Caring_  then."

"Caring," he confirms and glides his knuckles along his jaw. "Don't make it sound ugly. More people need to care."

Keith couldn't agree more, but he holds his tongue and pushes off the wall. He doesn't close the space between them, but the proximity heightens his awareness.

"I'm going to the gym after this. If you want to watch, then you're welcome to. Watching might keep you sharp during your downtime."

There's nothing else to do except reading three-year-old magazines, so Keith tags along. They walk beside one another through narrow hallways and dim light that bounces off tattered maroon runners.

The training facilities are located in a sprawling attic that spans the whole house. There's a makeshift ring roped off by thick chains, punching bags swaying from the ceiling, treadmills and free weights. If there isn't music rolling from overhead speakers, then there's heated grunting, panting or punching.

Keith takes a seat on a backward metal chair and folds his arms along its back. Today Shiro is training Pidge's brother, Matt. Keith shifts forward and watches Shiro walk Matt through technique. The review is worth something at first, but then Keith realizes he can't remember the last time he saw Shiro without a heavy coat covering his form. Keith's eyes drift down Shiro's bionic bicep and switch to his flesh one.

He also can't remember the last time Shiro threw him down on a blue mat. Bullet wound and all, Keith's abdomen burns for the rush. There's no way Shiro would humor him, though. Keith purses his lips.

Matt could be worse, which is all Keith takes home from the training session. His brain is too crammed with the yearning for him to consider much else. There's jealousy too and possibly instinctual protectiveness. Matt is putting his hands on Shiro, and no matter how much he likes Matt, it hooks Keith where it hurts.

"You awake?" Shiro calls from the ring.

Matt is face down on the floor with Shiro's knee pressing into his back. He's yielded three times, but Shiro hasn't bothered to let up his weight.

Keith arches an eyebrow. "My eyes are open."

"Open and glazed like a Krispy Kreme."

"It's not as fun to watch," he complains and directs his stare to Matt. "Are you trying to kill him?"

Shiro frees his opponent and stands. Matt gasps for air with a dramatic cough. Shiro snorts but dips into a sharp laugh that earns him two middle fingers from Matt. Lance once explained the two men were coworkers in Galaxy Garrison. They'd both been put on the Kerberos assignment and trained together.

" _I think he's the only person I'd call Shiro's friend."_

Friend or not, Shiro keeps his favoritism to his moneymakers. Whatever closeness he shares with Matt is kept behind closed doors and to his softness toward Pidge.

Shiro gestures for Matt to drink water and slips beneath the chain like he's part of a dance. He jogs toward Keith and kneels, clasping onto Keith's folded arms with both palms. Keith tenses at the impact and braces himself.

Keith tightens his grip on the chair that's now slick from his sweating palms. "What are you doing?"

"Pay attention."

Keith tries to be incredulous, but more so, unaffected. "Do you want me to take notes? I have been paying attention."

"To the fight," Shiro clarifies, speaking with careful annunciation. "Pay attention to the fight and not the assets you see in it."

Keith attempts to stare Shiro down like he's an idiot, but then the implication nails him. Keith's lashes flutter in surprise and he jerks back, but Shiro's grip could chain death.

Shiro's eyes gleam and his smile swells. "If I have to tell you again, then I'll dig a finger into your bullet wound."

If they were alone Keith would battle Shiro's assumption. If not for the truth, then pride. Keith, unfortunately, isn't alone with Shiro, so he grits his teeth.

"Noted, boss."

"Boss," Shiro echoes and glances at the ceiling. He clicks his tongue and reminds Keith of a rooster. "Not into how that sounds coming from you. We've never been that formal, you and I."

Shiro rips his hands off Keith's arms and stands.

When Keith thinks Shiro's out of earshot, he whispers. "Fuck."

He's not.

"I'll think about it."

Keith avoids Shiro throughout the next week, but he knows the avoidance can't last. The nurse gives him the okay to start work, and she tells Shiro before Keith can think to extend his sick leave.

"I'm in the office by seven," Shiro says, passing Keith on his way to dinner. "I expect you there and suited up. Lance will drop off your kit."

"Kit," Keith repeats, waiting for elaboration.

Shiro pats his back but avoids where the bullet landed. They eat dinner side by side, picking bites off each other's plates and toiling with appropriate betting sums. Keith retires to his room after Shiro gives him his custard bowl, and he finds his new weaponry waiting on the bed, rolled up in leather like a scroll. He doesn't bother opening it until morning, but it's because the new supplies feel prophetic. Becoming Shiro's bodyguard puts him in a different slot in Shiro's life. Things will change, and he's not ready.

Unlike most, Keith hates being right. This is because his nature is pessimistic at best. Morning comes, and he can smell the change. It's like an old man on the front porch, predicting the weather with his nose.

The sun has started to pour through the Black Lion's windows when Keith follows Shiro into his office. He's still sucking cheddar cheese from between his teeth when Shiro directs him to his post.

Keith follows the directive order. "Are you doing anything today?"

"No."

Beneath black denim pants and a red leather jacket, Keith is weighed down by knife holsters and his guns. Strapped to his back is a sword worn more as a symbolic threat than anything else. The gear is heavy and uncomfortable, and none of it seems needed, but there's no point in complaining when he's being paid.

From then on, they rarely speak to one another. He's meant to be a fly on the wall, and Keith tells himself he prefers it that way. Talking isn't his strong suit in the first place. Luckily, he likes to listen.

When Shiro has meetings with local drug lords or rations dealers, Keith stands behind him like a stone guardian, back pressed to the wall and arms folded across his chest. His eyes flit to every muscle movement, and his awareness sets the room on a knife's edge. Keith sees everything before Shiro, so it's up to him to make the executive decision to act.

The first people to make Keith pick and chose are Sendak's men.

They entered the room too stiff. That much Keith noticed, but it's the way they awkwardly sit that puts him on high alert. They're young, unnerved by their surroundings. There's an unseasoned tone to them that implies they're disposable and Sendak isn't offering Shiro respect. Keith lowers his arms to his sides.

"Sendak might have left the empire, but I'm not interested in anyone who hasn't proven himself yet." Shiro dismisses them with a wave. Like so many others, they want to know where Shiro is acquiring his quintessence. Keith doesn't even know. "If he wants to know where we're sourcing, then he can wait."

"Sendak doesn't like to wait," a man presses,  _threatens_. Keith narrows his eyes. "This is your one chance to create strong ties with someone who knows the Galra better than anyone else."

"I lived with the Galra for years," Shiro reminds the room. "I know enough."

The speaker, who's no older than Keith and even shorter, shifts his trembling hand toward his pocket. Keith slips his fingers into his jacket and produces a small knife. He whips the blade past Shiro's head, and it lands between the threat's eyes, instantly killing him. Guns appear across the room in a clinking flurry. The only person who doesn't move is Shiro. Rather, he writes something on a blue post-it note.

"Keith," Shiro says.

Keith lifts the custom automatic built from Galra specs and quintessence. He pumps three rapid shots and the bullets drive through skulls, sending bone fragment across the room. The men slump dead.

Keith experiences his first rush as a protector. His heart thuds, but he doesn't revel in the heat. He tucks the gun into his jacket without fanfare and reclines against the wall with a passive thud. Shiro lights a slim cigarette and whips open his phone with a sigh. He sucks on the filter once and offers it to Keith.

Taking the cigarette, Shiro picks a fuzzball off Keith's fingerless glove.

"Can someone get the garbage man up here?" Shiro says into the receiver. He writes a number on the sticky note. "Sendak's kids left a hell of a mess up here. Deliver the trash to his doorstep, but make sure you let Lance drive Ole Blue. No point in getting caught."

As Shiro hangs up the phone, sits on a desk corner. Shiro's hand pats Keith's thigh, but it's two heavy slaps that don't mean much.

"Quintessence," Keith begins. There's no point in finishing the thought.

Shiro keeps writing. "It's ugly shit, sweetheart, but it's uglier in the hands of the Galra. I'll die with my connection before it gets out to the public. It's a public safety measure."

"They'll find it the same way you found me."

"They won't." Shiro leans back in his chair and looks Keith over. Shameless. "What humans know as quintessence is a watered down version. The rocks they crush and snort that give them life? A single drop of raw Q can make a lifetime supply. There's no tracking through the mess we cook up downstairs."

"Zarkon knows your source."

He hums and taps his bottom lip with a pen. "He does but he doesn't."

Keith blows smoke in Shiro's direction. It curls around his head and adds to the low-lit office's permanent haze. "You're in a cryptic mood today."

"You're my bodyguard, not my keeper. I don't have to tell you everything." Shiro pats Keith's knee again, but he ends it with a light squeeze to his lower thigh. "Good work."

Being a bodyguard forces Keith to learn about Shiro's finer details. Keith discovers quirks such as Shiro plucking paper to his internal songs, his strange inability to finish the second cup of coffee, and how he can stop in the middle of mental math to take a call, doodle geometric shapes during the conversation, hang up, and then finish his complex equation with an easiness like breathing.

Irrelevant things. Things Keith notes to pass his time.

Shiro also considers tattoos when he's stressed, consulting Keith on concepts and debating what is and isn't considered tacky. If the days has been long and involved, he'll dial out to call boys but freeze before hitting the green send button. The latter was brought to Keith's attention when Shiro asked him to make the call for him. Right as Keith's thumb touched the button, Shiro jerked the phone from his fingers and tossed it into the drawer, sweating. Keith later saw the same number on Lance's side table. When Keith asked if it was a business line, Lance laughed in his face and explained it was for a whorehouse.

"Does the whole house use it?" Keith asked, unable to articulate the words without sounding like a flustered sixteen-year-old.

Amused by Keith's shock, Lance grinned. "I got the number from Shiro."

Keith realizes he doesn't know Shiro well at all, which isn't surprising if he thinks about it. He can't help but feel a tinge of annoyance. He's with the man morning and night. The fact he can't decipher Shiro's sexual exploits feels strange. The only thing Keith grows to understand is something about himself.

Keith likes being ruthlessness, but only if it's with a purpose designed by himself. He hasn't had a purpose in years. Guarding Shiro might be bloody work, but it's work he wants to excel at.

It's only a matter of time before he gains a reputation.

" _They're terrified of you."_

" _Are you into that, Shiro?"_

" _You'd love to know."_

His initial approach to guarding Shiro was to deal with anyone who attacked first. In time, Keith discovers standard disrespect is worth a finger, not his patience. Nothing gets done otherwise.

"You're no better than Zarkon and his bitch!" Haxus yells when Keith slams the alien's hand onto the desk. He reaches for his boot and whips out a blade. "Sendak knows where I am! He'll know what you -"

"Just make the idiot talk," Shiro murmurs, aggravation sending a pang through Keith's chest.

Keith slams the knife through Haxus's index finger. Haxus screams, but Keith's focus settles on the pinkish blood flowing across the scratched wood. It's thick and congeals into an animated jelly.

Shiro sips from his water glass. "I don't like to repeat myself, but I understand loyalty, so I'll ask one more time. Where did Sendak hear rumors about a ship?"

Haxus is sweating, pupils shaking while he stares at his detached finger. "There will be no information until you promise to share intelligence with Sendak!"

"Back to the cellar then," Shiro says, voice ragged and impatient. He gestures for Keith to retrieve the guards. Haxus rocks in his chair and rips himself against his metal restraints, shouting for help. Keith could empathize but doesn't. "Really, have some dignity, Haxus. You're a soldier."

"You're wasting your time, Shiro. I'll bite my tongue in two before I betray Sendak. He's the only answer to the disaster Zarkon's created. You're missing out on an opportunity."

Shiro's eyes dart to Keith who unsheathes the sword clinging to his back. The metallic ring echoes across the room, and it's a cold reminder that when Shiro says 'jump' Keith doesn't have to ask 'how high.'

Keith relives memories from Christmas and swings the blade with one hand. Beneath Haxus's severed head, blood rises like a fissure until the pressure makes his skull tumble onto the floor. Galra blood spritzes onto Shiro's desk, decorating his folders and paperwork with glowing pink specks. Shiro grumbles at the mess, but it might as well be a dead mouse rotting behind his office walls.

"Sendak needs to learn this isn't how we do things here." Shiro pushes back his chair and stands. He checks his face in a wall mirror and wipes away blood. "Are you hungry?"

Keith whips the blood off his sword and sheaths it. "I could eat."

"Let's go scavenge then." Shiro adjusts his beanie. "It's going to take all night for them to clean this up, and I'm tired of crunching numbers."

The kitchen is closed when they head downstairs, but that doesn't mean residents can't fend for themselves. Shiro opens the fridge, and Keith pilfers through the pantry. He finds granola bars.

"Sit down," Shiro orders. Keith stops searching to watch Shiro gather produce and other cooking means. He inspects an apple. "You've done enough."

Keith pushes aside soup cans, ignoring him. "Since when do you baby henchman? I did my job, Shiro. Get over yourself."

"Decapitation doesn't happen every day. _Sit_."

Shiro's mood has already been tested. To pacify him, Keith sits on one of the many metal stools lining the stainless steel countertop. He wants to do something with his hands. Existing with Shiro outside his post is awkward, but Shiro is near a knife block and determined. Thinking smart, he stays still.

Shiro hunts down a cutting board and begins to dice onion with unanticipated grace.

"I used to suck at cooking," Shiro says, filling the silence in between knife falls. He sweeps the onion aside and moves onto mincing arched garlic cloves. "There was something about it I couldn't get, but then the apocalypse happened, and I missed every takeout place on the east end. They bombed most of them."

"Sink or swim."

Shiro laughs. It's a puff of air. "Yeah. Sink or swim."

"I can barely cook," Keith confesses. He focuses on the blood splatter still marking Shiro's face. "I know how to scramble an egg."

Shiro nods at the cutting board. "I'll show you how."

"Is this the second lesson?"

Shiro blinks and the reference dawns on him. He sets aside the knife and steps away from the counter, gesturing at the new space in front of him. "Second lesson."

Keith rolls back his shoulders and rises to his feet. He takes his position in front of Shiro and grabs the knife, but Shiro reaches around his sides.

"Like this," Shiro says and takes the knife from Keith's hand to demonstrate.

Keith concentrates on the bell pepper with extreme intensity, holding his breath and focusing.

"Long like this," Shiro elaborates and soon the pepper is a pile of green strips. He turns them around and chops them into squares. "Keep your fingers under your knuckles. You'd be amazed by how many kitchen injuries we've had versus the ones we have when we practice knife fights upstairs."

Hot breath tickles Keith's ear. He counts the times Shiro's chest bumps against his shoulders.

4, 5, 6

He pretends to be more entranced by bionic hand dexterity than the fact another human being is touching him.

"— always move your fingers with the knife..."

7, 8, 9

Shiro finishes his lesson and hands over the blade. Keith copies his movements without issue except for keeping his knuckles pressed to the knife. After a moment, Shiro stops him and corrects his fingers, brushing the pads of his fingers along his knuckles. In Keith's head, a lock thuds into place, and he leans his back against Shiro's chest. He appreciates the solid weight of the man's warm torso and wants more.

"I miss training with you," Shiro says.

Keith doesn't look up from the cutting board. In his peripheral, he can see Shiro watching him. "I miss getting my ass kicked, too."

Shiro laughs, the noise faint but earnest.

Keith feels it against his body. He moves onto the napa cabbage. Shiro directs him through the proper cuts and then places his hands on the edge of the counter, walling Keith in. Keith doesn't raise his guard.

"How long until that bullet wound is actually healed?"

"I had enough strength to cut off a head. It's healed, Shiro."

"You used your other arm."

Keith battles a smile. "Can't get anything by you."

"You need to tell me if it hurts." Shiro brushes two digits down Keith's neck, touching the place where the bandaging begins. "It's a safety thing."

"I never told you if I was hurt after a fight before."

"No," Shiro agrees, but the words are soft. This time he touches Keith's hip. Keith stops chopping but only for a second. Staring down the knife, he sees Shiro's reflection in the steel. "You didn't."

"Then believe me when I say I've fought in worse conditions."

Shiro grips Keith's hip. "Things are different now."

Keith darts his face toward Shiro to protest, but his mouth smears against Shiro's lips, silencing his anxious protest. Keith drops the knife onto the very tip of his ring finger, cutting a sliver of skin clean off. Blood streaks the cutting board, and Shiro grabs his bangs to hold him still. Keith snatches his wrist in warning. Eyes bright, Keith pants with a hard stare that matches Shiro's equally intense one.

"You first," Shiro whispers, kissing him with the motion of speaking. "Make the first move."

Keith loosens his grip and lowers his voice. "I don't owe you that."

"You're right. You don't owe me a goddamn thing."

Even though the sentence ends, Shiro's lips don't still.

Keith ignores the throbbing in his finger the way he ignores all injuries and sucks Shiro's bottom lip. Shiro lets go of his bangs and settles his hand on the sides of his face instead, pulling him closer and matching Keith's tentative pace. He closes his eyes and strokes Keith's jawline with a thumb.

"What are we doing?" Keith asks, breathless and quick to re-enter the kiss.

Shiro doesn't respond, which suits Keith fine. He grabs the counter and holds it, tasting Shiro's tongue and thinking about being tossed onto the ring floor. Keith knows he's a powerful fighter who could hold his own against Shiro, but he doesn't want to right then. He wants Shiro to force the yield out of him.

Shiro answers after he catches his breath. "Something I've been thinking about for a long time."

A faint groan slips from Keith's mouth. Shiro's hand slides from Keith's jaw to his sculpted bicep, and he appreciatively feeling the dense muscle. All the touching on Shiro's end encourages Keith, and forgetting about the bloodied finger, he seizes the back of Shiro's head and brings him closer. It's been years since he touched someone who was more than a wet hole to fill, and Keith's humaneness can't save face. The hunger radiating from his skin makes him turn himself around and face Shiro.

Capturing Keith's face with his bionic hand, Shiro leans the man's lower back against the countertop. He fists the back of Keith's shirt with his other set of fingers, and both men squeeze their eyes shut. Keith tries to reel himself in, but he deepens the kiss and grapples for the front of Shiro's shirt, hands shaking.

He wants to tell Shiro he doesn't touch people unless he's hurting them. Keith wonders if that's what this will inevitably turn into. He's going to hurt Shiro or Shiro will hurt him, and that will be the end of it.

Keith retracts, and when Shiro goes in again, he plants a hand against his chest. "I can't fuck my boss."

"I'm not fucking you."

He snorts and swivels his gaze to the side. "You don't kiss someone like that without at least having it in mind."

Patient at the worst times, Shiro smiles. It's light, not condescending. The gentleness makes Keith wonder what Shiro was like before Earth's death. "We'll cross that bridge if we come to it."

_when, when, when_

* * *

 In the loud-quiet of his bedroom, Keith snorts the quintessence he fished from a bartender's leather jacket. One passive kiss and he slipped it into his sleeve, coyly walking away with a muttered 'too drunk.'

He rails the glowing white powder on his knees, and his tongue plumes with the taste of licorice. Above him is a splintered wood ceiling that snows dust during training. He's afraid to look up.

Shiro and Keith don't discuss the kiss, but Keith feels it soak him for days. His lips won't stop burning, and his nerves are drawn so taut he could play them like a harp.

 _Stop daydreaming_ , he tells himself.  _You're setting yourself up for another round of disappointment. Keep the bar low. If you don't want anything, then nothing can go wrong._

It's too bad dreaming is practically the core of Keith's life.

Lying on the gym mat after solo training, Keith stares at the attic's ceiling and tries to count the snaking wood grain to calm down. His heart hammers faster, a rebel. Grunting, Keith rolls onto his side to stare down his water bottle. He's might seem ignorant, but he does know better. Feelings are the bane of tactical thinking, which means if Shiro gets hurt, then Keith might feel before he thinks.

Implying he doesn't already feel and then think.

Keith presses his cheek against the mat and curls into a ball. His shoulder throbs, but he ignores the ache for the fetal position that comforts him on a primitive level.

"You look like you're having a crisis," Shiro says from across the ring.

Keith lifts his arm and waves, unmoving.

He counts Shiro's approaching footsteps but doesn't bother moving to look at him. Keith continues to watch the sweat streaking his bottle, but he spots Shiro's legs in its curved reflection. He's not wearing his jacket or boots. He's in Adidas and thick black leggings. Keith imagines those legs around his waist.

"I'm having a bad adrenaline come down."

"I'll remember that excuse for any future existential meltdowns."

"Shut up," Keith says."I'm not having a breakdown. It's a minor internal conflict."

Shiro offers Keith his hand, smiling. Keith stares at the palm for an extended pause. He knows what touching Shiro will do to him, but he grabs it anyway. Shiro tugs him to his feet and pulls him against his chest, another hand quick to grab Keith's waist. They're not alone in the gym, which makes Keith sweat.

Unashamed, Shiro swipes Keith's hipbone with his thumb. "I have a meeting across town today. Be ready in an hour."

Keith fights the urge to set his chin on his shoulder. "You're not asking about the conflict."

Shiro swipes the man's chin. "You're an open book around me. All I'm going to say is keep it together while you're working. Fall apart when we're alone. I promise I'll make it worth your while."

"Were you always such a good talker?"

"No," Shiro admits, plain and too honest. "Back at the Garrison, I had no game. Kind of makes sense if I'm being honest. There isn't a lot of sex appeal in  _loving_  mathematical theory."

Keith casually pantomimes a blowjob. "Give me your filthy Planck function until I'm the black body that absorbs all of your electromagnetic radiation."

Licking his left molars, Shiro bites a grin in two. "I mean, you are an idealized physical body."

It takes everything inside Keith to restrain a shouting laugh.

"I'm going to shower now," Keith says while punching Shiro's shoulder. "I can't believe I once thought you were intimidating and cool."

Shiro cocks an eyebrow like a gun. "I could still choke you out."

Humming, Keith grabs Shiro's chin to mock his gesture from earlier. He runs his thumb along the chiseled extension and shrugs. "It's not a threat if I'm begging for it."

When Shiro whistles, Keith shrugs with a lifted palm, pleased with himself.

Shiro's SUV is obvious in its inconspicuousness. Black and chrome-covered, whenever Keith sits in the backseat alongside his boss, he can't help but feel like a sitting duck.

"Bulletproof windows," Shiro assures him every time Keith comments on it, which is often. "No one's getting into this tank without the code. Use your stress on something important."

"You're the main source of stress in my life."

Shiro's rolls his eyes and his phone rings. He answers the call, leaving Keith to his own devices during their short journey to a quintessence house seven blocks over. Keith presses his boot against the back of the front passenger seat. The particular coat Shiro is wearing has seen better days, and Keith opens his mouth to pick a black hair off his tongue. He's in a defiant mood, so he wipes it on Shiro's pants.

"What's eating you?" Shiro asks after hanging up his phone. "You were fine upstairs."

There isn't anything specific, but Keith tells himself it's Shiro's carelessness. He's aloof in danger, and while Keith knows it's unavoidable thing in their line of work, he still wants Shiro to be safe.

"Nothing," Keith murmurs. "Bad feeling. That's all."

"Keep your eyes peeled then. If there's a feeling to trust, then it's yours."

They're two blocks from their destination when the car comes to a premature stop. Shiro opens and closes his bionic fist, and Keith shifts in his seat.

"What's going on?" Shiro asks the driver.

"There's a roadblock."

Shiro slants to the side to look through the open partition. Three black cars with significantly less chrome are waiting on the cracked pavement, effectively preventing them from moving forward in any capacity. Shiro swears beneath his breath and opens and closes his hand again. He's prepared to engage, but Keith swallows spit and tells himself they won't need to get to that point. Protecting Shiro is his one-man job.

Keith's gaze narrows in on the driver's hands. One drops from the wheel and shifts backward, and Keith reaches behind himself for his gun. He draws it on the driver and slams the barrel against his head.

"Don't move," Keith warns. "Pledge your loyalty right now."

Shiro slides his hand up the back of Keith's thigh as the driver does so. When Keith is convinced he was only drawing the weapon to protect himself, he sits back and grabs the door handle. His fingers touch the lever and a door an opposing car also flies open. Keith spots the massive purple hand through the front window. Sendak steps out of the car, and Keith looks for a weapon other than his arm. He can't find one.

Shiro's jaw tenses. "I think someone wants to talk more than we thought."

"Let's try and play nice," Keith says. He opens the door, but Shiro grabs him before he can step outside. "Shiro, what are you -"

Shiro whispers into his ear like he's scolding a child. "If he charges, then don't fight. That's an order. You're still healing."

Keith shrugs him off, tired of the protective act. "If he attacks you, then I'll break his neck. That's what you're paying me for."

Pressing his face against Keith's temple, Shiro ignores the driver and kisses Keith on the mouth, pushing his tongue between his lips with ownership Keith competes against by sucking his tongue. Shiro has enough and pushes Keith out with a small laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Though the Galra is an ever-present force, they're not often seen. Keith's eyes fixate on the abundance of purple fur bunched at Sendak's neck and the sheer enormity of his form. He's almost twice Keith's height and his split robotic arm somehow connected through magnetism sends a thrill down Keith's spine. If he fought Sendak, then he'd surely be laid to waste, but Keith knows Shiro's fought him and won.

"It's been a long time, Shiro," Sendak cooly says. His English is eerily concise, too practiced and potentially programmed. "You're a difficult man to arrange a meeting with."

Shiro's boots smack against the pavement, his hands stuffed deep inside his jacket pockets. "Considering you mangled my arm, I'd like to think giving you a hard time is only fair."

Arching an eyebrow, Keith darts his eyes toward Shiro but shifts them back to Sendak. The origin story around Shiro's arm shifts between voluntary and torture, but torture always seemed most likely.

"We fought each other in the arena," Shiro explains, "and destroyed each other's arm. Where do you think I adopted the fight club narrative? Definitely not that shitty Chuck Palahniuk classic."

Keith can't help but think Shiro is definitely as hot as the Tyler Durden manifestation, but considering Shiro's apparent vitriol for the cult classic, he decides  _never_  would be the right time to say that.

"Put the arena behind us." Sendak narrows his one eye. "Humans are too sentimental for their own good. It's what made you easy to conquer."

"I love it when villains talk like they're from a Disney movie." Shiro raises his voice to acknowledge Sendak. "Cut your losses and make this easier on everyone, Sendak. I'm already late, and unlike you, I have some business integrity."

Sendak lifts his arm. The disconnected half spins with a purr. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Shiro. Surely one of your men knows your source. With you dead, there won't be any incentive for keeping their mouths shut. Whether or not you trust me, I will put a stop to Zarkon's work."

"Should we trust him?" Keith asks, serious. "He's bent on it, Shiro."

"He's also been a part of the Galra regime for thousands of years. A decade on Earth isn't going to change his mind. Don't trust him. I've heard about his conquests on other planets."

Shiro ignites his arm, and one by one, the doors to the surrounding vehicles pop open. Multiple Galra and Galra hybrids step out, and Keith shifts back, knowing they're outnumbered.

"It's not charging if it's self-defense," Keith snaps.

Sendak flings his arm forward and the levitating segment boomerangs toward them. Keith reaches behind himself and unsheathes the sword strapped to his back, forgetting his gun. He and Shiro careen away from one another, which is the opposite of what he's been instructed to do, but there isn't a choice. The ground shakes beneath them when Sendak's arm slams into their SUV, killing their driver on contact.

"Tear the fuckers apart!" Shiro orders.

Shiro barrels toward Sendak, in full concentration and fearless, but Keith knows he can't be a spectator. From nearby rooftops, bullets rattle free from unseen guns, and Sendak's men begin to drop. Keith quirks the corner of his mouth, spotting a blue flash from the corner of his eye. It's Lance, of course.

He swears he hears Lance howl.

Keith chucks his sword through the nearest Galra's chest. Narrowly avoiding laser bullets, Keith shifts down and sprints past the body. He wrenches free his sword and pursues another victim.

Behind him, Shiro and Sendak collide. Shiro's jacket is no longer present, and the black lion tattoo is on full display as his muscles violently flex with each motion. Keith forces himself forward, and with each slit throat, clears the street and washes its pavement in blood. By the time he and the backup are finished, the surrounding storefronts are demolished due to Sendak's fist colliding against them again and again.

Keith whips himself around to join Shiro in the fight, but he freezes. Sendak's arm is racing toward Shiro's back at a speed that will kill him. Keith grinds enamel and jets for the man, boots smacking loud.

" _I said watch your back."_

He lifts his blade as if prepared to take Sendak on, but fakes him out, sliding home beneath the flying arm and intentionally tripping Shiro to save him from having his spine broken. Both men hit the ground, and Keith ignores the way his naked elbow rakes open and bleeds. Shiro's back can't be doing much better.

"Smooth," Shiro snaps, eyes redirecting to Sendak.

"What's your plan?"

Shiro wipes sweat off his forehead. "His arm was upgraded since we last fought. We need to leave."

Sendak closes in on them with his long stride, casting a shadow. Keith scrambles to stand.

"I know you love your master, but he's a fool," Sendak taunts. He gestures at the cars behind him. "If you were a smarter man, then you'd join my side and aid in dismantling Zarkon from the inside out. Don't you have dreams, Keith? The universe is incomprehensibly large. You could be more than Shiro's agent."

Keith seizes at the word 'dreams.'

"Don't be an idiot," Shiro snaps, using Keith's shoulder to help him rise to his feet. "This isn't your fight. Sendak and I go too far back for this not to be personal."

"You hired me to be your bodyguard, so I'm going to guard your body."

Ignoring Shiro's disapproving shout, Keith glances at the wide dumpsters a leap away. He tears from Shiro's hold and runs for them, stepping on a box and pushing himself onto the dumpster's unstable lid. Shiro engages his arm for a second round, but Keith can tell by his haggard breathing he's not in the place to fight Sendak solo. There are plenty of snipers that could take Sendak out, but Keith has a feeling Shiro pointedly ordered them not to kill the alien. Whether or not it's a pride thing, Keith doesn't know.

Either way, Keith knows Sendak isn't his kill.

Keith shoves his sword into its holster and removes a gun instead. It's empty, but he doesn't need to shoot it. Keith remains perched on the dumpster, waiting for Shiro to guide Sendak to him. After a series of artful scuffling, Sendak is close enough and Keith throws himself off the high place. He rears back the gun by the barrel, and the second his foot touches Sendak's torso, Keith seizes the fur on his throat and beats the gun against Sendak's temple in an attempt to knock him unconscious.

Sendak grabs Keith's hair and slams him against the ground, ruthless in his attempt to kill him. Keith's bullet wound makes nice with the pavement, but he rolls in an attempt to find his bearings and keep fighting. Sendak catches the back of his shirt like picking up a kitten by the scruff, forcing the man's bloodied nose and mouth to drain onto the ground and create bright puddles.

Keith reaches for his sword, but Sendak grabs his arm and twists it behind his back, threatening to break it off with a painful warning tug. Keith screams, writhes.

"I could remove it," Sendak warns. "It'd make us an interesting trio. Though I don't know if you're worth the investment required to build an arm, so tell me. Where is Shiro sourcing quintessence?"

Shiro speaks first. "He doesn't know, Sendak. Only an idiot would trust their bodyguard with both their business and life."

"He's more than a bodyguard, isn't he?"

"Lance," Shiro snaps. Keith realizes he's been wearing a headset the entire time. "Arm. Don't you dare miss or I'll -"

Shiro doesn't finish his sentence. Sendak's flesh arm explodes.

Keith is dropped to the ground as Sendak's horrified shouts fill the street. Ignoring the flesh and blood slipping down his back, Keith scampers away and unsheathes his sword. He doesn't see the moment Shiro sprints up Sendak's body and punches the alien into comatose oblivion.

"Keith," Shiro snaps before Sendak's unconscious body finishes falling to the ground. He points at him. "You're fired."

Shiro's shoulders lift and drop as he pants, unable to look at Keith. Not sure what to do with himself, Keith shakes as he stands and turns around. His eyes fall on Sendak's body, and he cards his fingers through his hair, clearing the tightness from his throat. Fired means he doesn't have a home. Fired means he might not be able to retrieve the money he's squirreled away for months. Fired means Shiro is the kind of pissed that implies he will never again make his lips burn the way he did while they were in the kitchen.

"Get in the car," Shiro says and steps off Sendak's body.

Keith's mouth falls into a thin line. "You said I'm fired."

"Backseat, Keith!"

The last time Shiro yelled at Keith was - well, never, actually. Even at his angriest, Shiro doesn't yell. His rage manifests in a lukewarm aggravation that's much more unnerving than this unhinged state.

Keith decides to follow Shiro's order if he wants to keep his limbs. After all the gunfire and shouting, the street is eerily still. There isn't even a follow-up fleet to chase them down.

He climbs into the backseat of the car that wasn't as totaled as he thought. Keith knows better than to speak first. Their driver is dead, hanging out of the window with a bullet wound through his forehead, and he wonders if that's about to share the man's fate. Keith grips the edge of the seat and evens his breathing, counting the pulse thrumming in his head. Shiro yanks open the opposite door, jacket returned to his shoulders, and takes a seat. He slams the door shut, and the impact rings through Keith's person.

"You're an idiot," Shiro says, calmer than before.

"He was wearing you down."

I've faced worse. If you had kept to yourself, then we could have -"

Keith snaps. "If you told me anything about anything, then I'd be able to read the situation better, but you didn't! I didn't even know we had backup, Shiro!"

"It's your job to listen to me! I don't have to tell you anything I don't want to. What you have to do is follow my orders. I'm the one in charge and -"

"Nice lesson, Shiro, but it doesn't matter now that I'm  _fired_!"

Shiro closes the space between them. On reflex, Keith lifts his hands to protect his face from a beating. This makes Shiro slow, become mechanical, but he doesn't stop. Grabbing Keith's wrists, he jerks the man closer and breathes against his mouth, giving him unflinching eye contact. Keith imitates it with ten times the amount of pride, a beaten dog that isn't afraid to traipse the galaxies that built Shiro's stare.

"What are you going to do?" Keith asks through clenched teeth. "Take it out on me?"

He scoffs, nose wrinkled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Don't act like you wouldn't too." Taking hold of Shiro's sleeves, he thumbs the fur and tugs Shiro closer. "You've thought about it before, right? Who wouldn't in your position?"

The admission makes Shiro's features turn soft, but he tilts his head and appraises, expression more contemplative than hard. Keith remains resolute.

"Strip."

"Your men are watching from the rooftops."

"Good," Shiro says. "At least you'll be able to say you didn't fuck your boss."

"Asshole."

Keith rips his wrists free. Urgent, he fumbles with his pants, paying more attention to Shiro's clinking belt. Keith wants to see Shiro naked, touch the expanse of a body sculpted by the Galra's hands, maybe hate it while also loving its tone flanks, but there's no time strip every piece of clothing. They can do that later in Shiro's office or sprawled on his bed. Daydreaming about being split on Shiro's mattress, Keith shucks denim to his shins and tries not to look at his reflection in the window.

Keith cast a glance over his shoulder.

He swallows and wants to suffocate his haggard breathing, but Shiro is kneeled behind him, cock exposed and thick pubic hair climbing his cut abs like a lattice. Keith reaches for the driver's seat and steadies his balance. The Black Lion is full of men with muscles trained to perfection by Shiro, but it's different when it's naked and aroused, prepared to mount you like an animal. Everything about Shiro, from the pink uncut tip to the way the black jacket frames his tattooed waist, is perfection. Keith wants to use his mouth on him. He can already taste salty cum spilling down his throat like sea water.

Shiro smirks and runs a hand up his lean stomach. "You've seen it in the showers."

"It's not the same," Keith murmurs and shamelessly appraises Shiro's prick. The middle is fat, swollen, and ribbed with veins. Keith can already fathom it ripping out of his body, sending him to both heaven and his dry elbows. "You're not like this in the showers."

"Not when you're looking."

The admission leaves Keith breathless. "You should've let me watch."

He reaches behind himself, and still wearing fingerless gloves, massages his hole. Keith shudders. His forehead hits the window with a thunk. Furrowing his brow and moaning, he dips his hand down farther and squeezes his balls. There he glides his thumb down the seam, and shamelessly, they grow taut, firm and ready to empty. Keith knows that if he touches his cock he'll come, so this is the next best thing.

"That's what I wanna see," Shiro murmurs, huskier than usual. Shiro zealously jerks his cock the distinct smacking momentarily fills the car. Keith lifts his ass, impatient, but Shiro doesn't budge. "It's your lucky day, baby. This is the car with lube under its seat."

Keith squeezes his eyes shut and shifts his thighs. Behind him, Shiro rustles with something. A bottle cap clicks. Cold drips down his lower back, over his hole and between working fingers. Shiro pushes aside his hand and finishes the job. He brushes, prods, taunts Keith until he chokes on spit and his stomach spasms with each small gasp. Shiro laughs above him but pushes a finger inside and soon he's opening him wide.

Looking over his shoulder, Keith hunts for a kiss, awkwardly reaching behind himself to paw at Shiro's chest because he wants more.

Shiro leans over his shoulder. "Kissing. Are you into that? Being romantic, I mean."

"You started it," Keith says, rasping. "Under the sky, kitchen, arm wrestling -"

Shiro's mouth shuts him up. They kiss and Keith's body trills with stardust. It's supposed to be a filthy fuck without genuine context, but Keith thinks he might find a purpose. Not just  _through_  Shiro. With him.

There's always an inkling in relationships. Before you love someone you can sense there's a chance you might someday love them with your whole person. Keith sees the possibility. It's as tangible as the northern lights. How it looks like a seafoam jelly you could sink your teeth into if you could just  _grab_   _it_.

Shiro has a tongue like gunmetal. It's sharp, slices him open. Keith wants to throw his fist through the car window. In another life, they could've met organically and collided through magnetism. Karma might be compensating now, but the sky still spills acid and he daydreams about injecting quintessence to end it.

"Fuck me."

Keith's cheek and temple ram against the car window. His neck awkwardly slants, and he'll need an adjustment in the morning, but he doesn't complain. Not when Shiro's cock is thick and sinking like an anchor, stretching him open and punishing him for daring to take on Sendak without permission. Keith hisses at the splintering pain, grappling onto the locked door handle. He clenches onto it and attempts to relax with a guttural groan, but Shiro is wrenching the sound off his tongue as easy as post-it notes.

Shiro grabs him by the hair and rushes forward, bottoming out.

"I want to know you," Shiro says, hoarse but earnest. "Inside and out."

Keith licks drool from the corner of his mouth. His shoulders plummet in defeat. "Right now."

"Right now," Shiro confirms, retracting hips without mercy.

Keith's fingers tear down the glass window, which is fogged, blocking light. Each thrust channels pain through his thighs even with the lube, and he knows he'll hate it in the morning, pretending Shiro didn't make his eyes fill with colorful clouds. Keith heaves, the noise reaching a high pitch that humiliates him.

"Fuck, Shiro," Keith whispers against his sleeve, creating a wet stain.

Shiro bucks harder, and the car rocks with the fervent rutting. Keith tries not to scream. It could draw attention, but the fight would have already lured scavengers if they were nearby. Keith consoles himself with the thought and fucks back against Shiro, bouncing his ass to meet him halfway.

"That's what I'm talking about," Shiro whispers, leaning over Keith's shoulder. He kisses the crook of his neck and drags his mouth toward his ear. He sucks the lobe, and those hot breaths and wet nibbles flood Keith's ear, turning his senses kaleidoscopic. "Whore that tight ass out. Show me how long you've wanted me to fuck you out, and I'll show you how long I've wanted to make you mine."

Shiro places his bionic hand on Keith's throat and yanks him against his chest. Keith momentarily chokes, but Shiro sits on his knees, settling Keith on his lap and opening his airway. One thrust and Keith screams. Shiro's cock impales him, breaks the skin, but rather than squirm, Keith's eyes roll back and he moans. He lifts himself with his knees and plummets down, creating a rhythm that leaves Shiro speechless. All Shiro can do is grunt in Keith's ear and guide his subordinate's hips like a good leader.

They enter fluidity timed like slopping waves, but the heavy heat in Keith's belly bottoms out. Suddenly, no wave can cull their friction. There's only one thing strong enough to subdue it.

"Wanna come," Keith whispers, syllables minced by thick breath.

Keith wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes. He tilts his head back against Shiro's shoulder, and Shiro kisses his jawline, covering his hand to help him masturbate. The other hand is still on his throat, holding him in place. When Keith's thighs shake and his hamstrings constringe, Shiro pounds upward.

"Oh my god," Keith whispers through welded teeth. Shifting back a hand, he catches Shiro's bangs and guides him into a kiss that is only half-realized. Oxytocin makes it difficult. "Oh my fucking God."

He closes his eyes and his brow furrows with rage. It's a practiced expression, learned through a lifetime of reading the universe's scathing rejection letters, but now it's in bliss. Keith shouts Shiro's name, and it spurs Shiro onward, making the man's movements erratic. Shiro pulls back from the kiss and glides his cheek down Keith's shoulder, stroking hand losing purpose and his other hand clawing at Keith's throat.

"Keith," Shiro begs, muffled by damp skin. "Keith."

Keith can hear Lance now.

" _Never labeled you as someone who's shameless. Glad he uncorked your clenched asshole, though. Probably had to dig deep for that one, huh?"_

He's probably projecting.

Shiro scratches blunt nails along Keith's taut abdomen, catching small scars and lighting pressure in their wake. Keith slams his palm against the ceiling, shouts again, and he's drowning in black matter. There's nothing beautiful about filthy sex where the stench will linger, the pain will resound, but Keith loves to know he's still a human being. Tears well in his eyes without consent, and heat drops down his gut.

Keith cums, begging for Shiro and God alike. Shiro grabs for his hips and forces them up and down, digging teeth into his shoulder like holding back a scream.

* * *

 They decide against returning to the Black Lion for the time being, and after tugging the dead driver from behind his blood-splattered wheel, steer toward the desert lands. Keith drives, but he only sees blue skies winking through the dust-laden air. His body is radiating as much heat as the cracked red clay sprinting alongside the gray and fissured highway. Its pulsations are human in that terrible and corporeal way. With Shiro, he's too present and aware of his molecular structure. There's so much to  _feel_  it enwombs him.

"My dad worked for the Garrison," Keith says. "They kicked him out for breaching security. A few years later, he disappeared. He was a pilot. He passed the exosphere four times."

Shiro hums. "Busy pilot. I probably knew him."

Keith doesn't want Shiro to have known him. Preferring to exist outside the world before the invasion, he doesn't elaborate on his familial details. He keeps his eyes on the horizon instead and wonders if he'll summon the will to drive back to the Black Lion. Everything had altered in an instant, and Keith saw what they were before like Pangea. It was all theoretical puzzle pieces he could never fit back together.

"Do you miss your dad?"

"It's hard to miss people once they've been gone a long time. Missing him isn't missing him anymore. When people talk about their parents, I envy them. That's how I miss him now."

Cement blocks rise along the highway when the blue above creates a gradient into orange. Galaxy Garrison's details give way and stars pinhole the creeping night behind it. Shiro rolls down the window and leans back in his seat, unquestioning and aware of the path from the beginning. The Garrison was emptied out years before, and once cleared of Galra eyes, became a place for vandals to set up camp. Relatives visit to pay respects to the dead, but Keith is going there to remember what it means to dream.

"When were you last here?" Keith asks.

Eyes shut, Shiro lifts and drops his shoulders. "Years ago during the final purge. It was the first time I fought Sendak. I held my own and got the job offer."

"You make it sound simple."

"Well," he starts but takes a second to gather his thoughts, "it is. After a few years, perspective changes. I dilute the situation because there's nothing I can do now. I think that's the trick to aging and not killing yourself."

Keith tightens his grip on the steering wheel. "I still want my life back."

The car pulls through the chain link fence and the angular institution is much smaller than Keith remembers. He kills the engine but leaves the lights on and steps onto the sand.

Shiro is behind him in seconds. "I wonder if the generators still work."

"If you lit this place up, then the Galra would come for us in seconds."

"Doubt it." Shiro shoves his hands into his pockets and treks toward the front as if he never missed a day of work. He opens a busted front door, boots crunching broken glass like a thousand tiny beetles. "I want to see if my office is still here."

Though layered in scattered paper and tumbled chairs, the Garrison's interior is cavernous, haunted. Keith stares down a stream of bullet holes peppering the wall, but after accepting the flaky rust was created by the blood the bullets spilled, cuts his vision forward. Shiro is steeled and ambles forward, bionic fingers brushing the grubby glass dividers overlooking what he explains was once a flight simulator deck.

Keith ignores the wishful pang in his chest.

Without warning, Shiro stops in the middle of the hall. He turns and faces a shut door. "I once told myself I'd come back and save everyone. I believed myself, too. I meant it."

Beside the door is a black plaque that reads SHIROGANE in white.

"Being impassioned makes you feel powerful," he continues, and when he clears his throat, Shiro deceives himself. "I'd do anything for a ship. There's this group call the Marmora and -"

Shiro clamps his lips together and they curl like burning paper. He doesn't finish the thought or open the office door. He follows his path down the linear hallway and slinks through automatic doors he has to manually coerce open with his bionic hand. The same hand ignites and becomes their only light source.

"Basement," Shiro explains. Keith stops following him and clenches both fists. "I'm not going to turn on the upstairs. All I want to do is see the labs again. You can stay behind if you want."

Keith doesn't stay behind but he treads cautiously. The basement doors open onto a black pit that seems to swallow its stairs into the Garrison's whittling stomach. Shiro guides Keith down the steps with a firm hand on his shoulder, but once on the level ground, Keith's hipbone slams against a worktable.

"Takashi Shirogane administering generator laboratory reboot. Alternator numbers six and eight. Occlude floors one, two, three."

Shiro's tone flattens Keith's lungs. He stops rubbing his bruised hip and stares at the magenta glow canvasing Shiro's stoic face. This is not the violent man standing in the Black Lion's observatory loft with a cigarette in hand and white flip phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. This resonate voice is certain and practiced, lacking all aloofness and disordered thoughts. Even his back is squared.

A feminine voice croons from the ceiling. "Generator reboot engaged."

Dim, yolkish lights flicker to life along the walls. They're too weak to inspire a moth, but Keith can now see the work tables surrounding him. Equipment that could be mistaken for torture devices or high-grade BDSM equipment is scattered in fossilized hysteria, bashed and contorted like melted human skeletons.

Shiro says nothing and Keith figures he should say nothing, too.

They slide past the workstations together. Keith can't help but imagine the orderly life he would have had as a Garrison cadet. Starched orange cadet uniforms, alarm clocks set for 0500 hours, the sterilized but still body odor laminated flight simulators, meals on shiny chrome trays and then maybe even a clandestine relationship with Shiro who would have met his birthdays with a tongue between his lips.

He tells himself he should have known better than to go here. Sex isn't that formative in their post-invasion world. Shiro inside him was a heat of the moment, nerves screaming for life kind of response, not an aperture for existentialism or misplaced hope. Keith wants Shiro to hope, though.

Sometimes Keith tells himself he's forgotten how to hope, but the Black Lion is a strong unit. The people who traipse through the door in their tired Docs and tattered denim are all in disguise. They're an army ready to spit the same aggression they dig out of themselves during fights in the Black Lion.

Shiro touches a wall with his flesh hand. The wall itself is slate and inconspicuous, but when he presses his palm against it, a square wide enough to box in his hand illuminates. Blue light throbs beneath his fingers like a pulse, and closing his eyes, Shiro says his name again followed by a verification code that's a sequence of numbers and letters. The wall recedes into itself and slides open.

The room behind the wall is a hangar full of light too clean and white for Keith's unadjusted eyes. He rapidly blinks but ignores how his corneas sting.

Shiro takes a step forward and swallows. "Holy shit."

Unlike Shiro, Keith can't bring himself to say a word. He crouches down instead, sucker punched, and plants a hand on the perfectly waxed floor beneath his boots. Keith's chest rapidly rises and falls as his brain cracks and sloths like spring breaking a frozen river. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, his heart jams.

They're staring at a ship. An incomplete ship intended for short taxis between Earth and the Mars colonies, but it's more or less assembled. Behind it blueprints wait, open and begging to be seen.

"Someone died to hide this," Shiro whispers, shaky and terrified.

The words leave Shiro's mouth like a prayer of thanks. Keith grabs Shiro's pant leg and holds back vomit. The man soothingly pets through Keith's bangs, tender but awkward and unsure.

"Can you fly it?" Keith asks, refusing to be hopeful considering life's track record.

"I can."

Keith rubs his bridge. "Fuck."

"What I'm worried about is where the hell we'd get enough fuel to lift her." Shiro breaks from his awe-stricken spell, and with wet cheeks, hurries toward the vehicle. "That and she's incomplete. I'm not an engineer and the designer, Sam Holt, has been dead for years. Pidge's dad."

"Matt," Keith suggests. "He was Matt's dad, too. Would he know what to do?"

"Possibly, but I think we're getting ahead of ourselves."

The ship reminds Keith of a blue whale. The body is large and sleek, wide fins fanning back as if prepared to brush through water and catapult into an ocean's great unknown. If they can get its four-hundred-pound heart plump and coursing with blood, then they might have a chance to revive their own hearts and  _live_.

Keith approaches the ship and opens his arms against it, embracing the massive structure and pressing his ear to its gut. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits, and much like in the car, he hears a pulse whooshing inside his head, banging his temple like a snare. Keith wrinkles his nose, listens to how Shiro shifts through blueprints and picks at tools. He imagines his pulse as if it belonged to the ship. He would give half of his life if it meant she would rise above the Earth and take them far, far away into oblivion.

"I'm taking these," Shiro announces and rolls up the blueprints. He cartoonishly stuffs them into his jacket. "We should get out of here before someone notices the car. I'll seal the room back up."

"I don't want to leave," Keith says, still hugging the ship.

Shiro laughs, still crying.

"We'll be back in a few days. A lot has happened today. I think we've earned a beer or three. I also want to get Matt cornered somewhere before he leaves to see his mom tomorrow."

The sun has kissed the horizon goodnight when they step outside, walking toward the butchered car beneath guttering stars and swooping bats. Shiro's pockets are stuffed with pens and his eyes are low.

"I still don't know where we'd get fuel. Hunk and Pidge could engineer something, but that could take years."

Keith touches the car door but pauses. An electric current rushes through him, and he drops his hand, staring at his reflection in the tinted window.

"Sendak," Keith says. It's obvious. It's unfound car keys waiting on the coffee table. "Sendak would know how to get us fuel."

Shiro's laugh is initially embittered, but it tapers off into violent silence. He doesn't question Keith's logic and heaves himself into the passenger seat. Keith joins him behind the wheel, and they sit in silence.

"I wonder if he's still knocked out on the side of the road," Shiro murmurs from behind his hand.

Keith hasn't turned the ignition over. He's too struck to hit his autopilot button. "I think we should be more concerned about whether or not he'd want to talk after you blew off his arm."

"We could make him."

The two men swap glances and say nothing more. Shiro slides his hand onto Keith's thigh when Keith brings the engine to life, and this time, the drive is much shorter. It's been years since the street lights went out of commission, and while there are neighborhoods where the locals have built their own, where Keith and Shiro fought Sendak isn't one of them.

"Try not to run him over," Shiro says as Keith carefully drives through the dim backstreet.

"There's no way he's still here."

Keith parks the car and steps out onto the street. Shiro is already walking forward by the time he shuts the door, and as Shiro begins to laugh, the noise crude and almost hysterical, Keith knows he was wrong.

Sendak is lying on the ground in the same position they left him in. Beneath the moonglow, he's an imposing figure, a villain stripped from a fairytale with his groomed fur and pointed ears. Keith considers the fact he's an alien that's traipsed galaxies on a warship, and his incredibly human skin crawls. The notion is suffocating, and the thin air sensation enhances when he and Shiro seize Sendak by his ankles and wrists. He's still breathing, but barely, which for Keith, is promising.

No one will strangle him while he's driving back to the Black Lion.

After knocking Sendak's head against the car, the men take their seats. They ruminate on the possibilities in that day's events.

"I never dreamed we'd find a ship like that," Keith says. "After all the reports about the Galra making a point to destroy anything that could leave the atmosphere, I never thought -"

"That's what felt impossible to you?" Shiro snorts, a corner of his mouth hooked into a smirk. "I'm still in awe you let me between your legs."

Keith rubs his burning throat. "That too. Today was a lot."

Laughing, Shiro's chuckle spills into a comfortable silence that fans between them like a placid lake. Keith self-soothes, stroking the leather wheel with his thumb. The Black Lion is perched on a hill, one vermicular driveway away, when Shiro speaks again, voice soft and concise not unlike how he sounded inside Galaxy Garrison. Keith drives between the dead trees. His entire framework is shaking.

"We're going to get off this planet alive, Keith." Shiro slides his fingers along Keith's scarred knuckles, plucking the nodules one by one. "So keep dreaming because I can't dream alone anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I can't tell you how much it means to me and how much this piece means to me in general. I feel like I was able to really re-enter why I love to write while working on it. Also, thanks so much to Bianca and Katy for inspiring this. It wouldn't have been possible without you both.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like then comment and kudo! Thanks. Also, check out my twitter to find out ways to get earlier updates @leecawrites


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